


Fractured

by hypnoshatesme



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, both Gerry and Michael should probably look into therapy, it was meant to be hurt/comfort but uh..., lonely and spiral are the only ones having a good time in this, more like tentatively hopful ending than a comfort/happy one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnoshatesme/pseuds/hypnoshatesme
Summary: Gerry finally managed to get Michael out of the hallways, but things don't go as he imagined.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Fractured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pomegrenate_lovebug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenate_lovebug/gifts).



> the angst channel is just my favourite place to be and, generally, I'm there in good company <3

Michael’s hands felt wrong. They didn’t  _ look  _ wrong, not anymore, not yet, but he could feel it, could feel them expand, elongate, felt himself falling apart again, and again, and  _ again _ , piece by piece until Michael wasn’t Michael anymore and the pieces were put back together all wrong and it hurt and Michael’s fingers felt wrong. 

He was becoming again, he knew, he could feel it. There was no escape, it had been foolish to believe, a wish, and his hands felt wrong. He picked and scratched and tried to blink the tears away to get a proper look, to see, to watch, again, watch them shift and change, trying to get ready for the pain. He could feel it, deep inside, it was happening again. 

The grip had been too strong, he had been part of it, merged, lost. Of course there was no saving, no going back, no being Michael Shelley again. His hands felt bad and strange and Michael couldn’t stop sobbing and picking at them. They were shaking. He was shaking. He wanted to stop, didn’t want to become that thing again, not again, not now-

“Michael?” Gerry’s hands were on his, wrapping around them, and Michael flinched, tried to pull back, because his hands felt wrong and might hurt, might cut, might go back to those of that monster, of him, of  _ it _ , any moment. 

But Gerry only squeezed his hands gently, tried to glance his eyes. Michael kept staring down at his hands, expecting the fingers to break through, to go right through Gerry’s warm, rough hands. To hurt, because that’s what Michael did, that was its nature, and he was turning back into it-

“Michael, what’s wrong?”

Gerry’s voice seemed so far away and Michael opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t stop sobbing, gasping. He felt like he was choking and his vision was swimming - was it tears? He was still crying, wasn’t he? It looked so much like it had behind that door, that yellow door that wasn’t, where nothing looked right or at all and everything did, all the time, at the same time. 

But there hadn’t been Gerry behind that door, Michael remembered wishing he were, trying to hold on to the memory of black hair between his fingers, warm arms around him, there, real, unlike everything else. But eventually that had gone, too, dissolved into ever-changing walls of mirrors, ever-twisting, as had everything that had been Michael. 

This time Gerry was here, though, Michael could feel his hands, could hear his voice though he could barely make out the words right now, he was crying too hard. 

He looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of him, trying to make sure it was real, not an illusion, not an added cruelty to his second unravelling. Maybe if Gerry was there, was real, Michael would be fine. He wouldn’t unravel fully again. If Gerry was real.

Gerry was glad when Michael finally looked up. He didn’t know what had happened, what was happening, and it felt like a step into finding that out, maybe. Maybe the problem would be written in his features, maybe things would be fine after all, like they had thought just a moment ago, like Gerry had dared to hope-

Michael’s face glitched. But no, it did no such thing. Gerry had saved him, he had followed that stupid map and had forced it to spit him out and they had walked out of that hellscape. They were safe. Michael wasn’t-

It happened again, this time his whole body seemed to dissolve, just for a moment, before it settled back into reality. Gerry tasted static, the same static he had felt all around him in that place. It was impossible. This wasn’t happening, things had gone well, for once in Gerry’s life, things were looking good. Or had been, a moment ago. 

Michael’s face...did it look as it should? It was difficult to tell with the tears, the distressed expression Gerry couldn’t remember ever seeing on his features before, the panic, the-

His eyes flashed, just a moment, kaleidoscopic rather than grey. No. No, no, no, no. Gerry was seeing things. It was stress. It was his mind still whirring from being inside the Spiral earlier. This was not happening. He squeezed Michael’s hands, and they were gone with another sob. Gerry stumbled back, stared. He had felt that. It had been  _ real _ .

Or had it? Of course. Of course things had been going too well. It had been stupid of Gerry to dare to hope. Was this even Michael? Maybe he was still in the Spiral. This was still that thing, the thing wearing his Michael’s face, that had tormented him, tried to keep him from getting close, too close, to get to Michael. But he had pushed on, had pushed through madness and mirrors and walls that were floors and ceilings all at once. He had gotten Michael back, he  _ had _ . 

Or had he? Maybe it only pretended, let him hope, and now- now it’s showing its face again, taking Michael, still shaking violently, crying, but Gerry didn’t know what he felt at the sight anymore. Part of him was still panicking, urging to help, to calm, to comfort. But there was anger, too, anger and betrayal at that thing playing with him like this, daring to use Michael, daring to actually look like him for long enough that Gerry brought him- it? - home. He was mad, he was so mad and so hurt and Michael _ kept glitching with every sob _ .

Michael flinched when Gerry stepped away. Had he hurt him? Something looked wrong. Everything  _ felt _ wrong. It had been fine, surprisingly fine on their way here. Not good, not right, but  _ not like this _ , not this wrong, not like it was all happening again. 

That had only started inside, only when Gerry closed the door, when it clicked shut, like before, like it had in Sannikov Land, like it had again and again and  _ again _ as Michael wasn't Michael anymore but kept hearing it, kept hearing the final moments of Michael Shelley, the click that had sealed his fate. That had sealed the fates of its victims, too, and Michael had flinched every time, somewhere to the left of himself, itself.

The door. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe if the door wasn't closed- if the door didn't close Michael wouldn't become again. Maybe he could even stop crying.

"Gerry, I-” His voice. Did it sound right? He frowned, tried again, “Gerry, can you...can you open the door?"

Gerry froze. That voice. Did it sound right? It didn't. Because this wasn't Michael. It was that thing, still playing with him, taunting him. Gerry’s hands were tight fists as he glared at him- it. 

"Oh, the fucking  _ door, _ huh? You want me to go through it next?” He was shouting, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. This was all too much. How dare it,  _ how dare it _ do this, look and sound like Michael, like  _ hope _ ? “Maybe we'll go to Sannikov Land together for a holiday next?!"

It was the tone that made Michael wince, but the words that made fresh tears well up in his eyes, wide in shock. Gerry looked furious, his breathing heavy, his mouth a tight line, eyes angry, analysing. Glaring. Michael shrunk back further, trying to disappear. His chest hurt and there was a lump in his throat and he was sobbing again- had he ever stopped? Gerry looked  _ hurt _ and it hurt to look at him, knowing it was Michael’s fault. Because it was, wasn’t it?

Gerry felt a pang of guilt, short and sharp and  _ confusing _ . He shouldn’t be feeling guilty for hurting that _ thing _ but it looked so much like Michael, and he looked  _ afraid _ and Gerry  _ hurt _ and he was still on edge, still trying to make sense of the situation. This wasn’t Michael. Not  _ his _ Michael. Or...or it was, but not fully. It looked like him, it even...it even acted like him, in some ways. But it was clearly  _ not _ him, not human. There, it flickered again. It definitely was not Michael. It couldn’t be. 

Gerry had failed. Michael was still in there, still this  _ thing _ . And-- or maybe Gerry was still in there, too? No. No, he was at home and that thing was on his couch and his head hurt. Like it had in the Spiral. Did he ever make it out? Gerry couldn't  _ focus _ . Like in the hallways. Like around that thing. Maybe it was that. Maybe he was too close to that thing, but it was still his flat and...and. And he didn’t know. He didn’t know what to  _ do _ . 

He wasn’t giving up. If it still looked so much like Michael, if he acted like Michael it...it probably meant Michael was still in there, somehow. Somewhere. Gerry would save him. He had promised he’d keep him safe, had failed, and he would  _ fix it _ , no matter what it took. If the first attempt had failed, and it  _ had _ because the miserably sobbing, glitching person-  _ thing  _ on his couch  _ could not be his Michael _ , he had to get back to research. He would get him back. Gerry threw Michael a last glance before leaving the living room, head still spinning with too much, chest still feeling tight at that hurt, scared expression on Michael’s face.

Gerry didn’t sleep that night. He had to go through his notes, find the fault. He would get it right the next time. He would have Michael back.

It became a pattern. Gerry was first surprised, maybe irritated, when he still found Michael- no, not Michael, that  _ thing _ on his couch the next morning. But he decided that was a good sign. Maybe he had still weakened it in his attempt to save Michael, somehow, and now it couldn’t make its doors. That was good. He’d need to know where it was whenever he would finally find another way to save Michael. If its location was his couch, that made things easier.

Apparently, it had decided to mostly go back to looking like Michael, Gerry’s Michael, after that first night, and Gerry hated it. It made it more difficult, an active struggle to remember that that was not Michael. It wasn’t. He had seen it glitch. This was a trick, an illusion, a lie. And it  _ hurt _ . And it hurt how hurt it looked, too much like Michael, and Gerry had to remind himself that his guilt was misplaced.

It tried to approach, to talk to him, but Gerry shut it down, pushed it away. He needed to keep a clear head. He needed to fix this mess, save Michael. It had been a promise. Michael had helped him, gotten him out of the heavy fog of the Forsaken and Gerry had sworn to himself he would keep him safe, had promised him he would be fine. And Gerry had failed, but he refused to give up, he  _ wouldn’t _ . 

It didn’t help that the thing pretending to be Michael looked absolutely miserable. Gerry heard it crying at night, threw himself more furiously into his research. He had to make it stop. It was starting to get to him, Gerry felt the urge to comfort it and it terrified him. He couldn’t fall for its tricks. He had to save the real Michael.

Michael didn’t know anymore. He wasn’t...he didn’t think he was unbecoming anymore. If he avoided looking at the door, he could keep it together, he didn’t break down into sobs and tears and his hands...his hands didn’t feel as wrong. Not right. Nothing felt right, but it wasn’t as bad.

He wanted to tell Gerry, wanted,  _ needed _ to form those words, to sort his thoughts, to…to comfort Gerry. To have Gerry comfort him? Michael didn’t know anymore. Gerry didn’t look good, bruised eyes, tense shoulders, exhausted, and Michael disliked seeing that, wanted to help, but he was so  _ confused _ . He didn’t understand, not what or who he was and what had happened, kept happening every time he heard a door click shut, his body falling apart again, and he was in those halls again and  _ his hands felt wrong _ . 

But it never stuck, it never stayed, and Michael wanted to talk to Gerry about it, but Gerry only kept telling him he was not Michael Shelley, to leave him alone, and Michael felt like his heart was bleeding.

Because he felt like Gerry was right, in a way. Michael did not feel like Michael Shelley, wasn’t him anymore. But neither did he feel like Michael, like that thing, like the hallways. Which left Michael to be nothing and eventually he gave up trying to get Gerry’s help, reassurance in what or who he was. Michael wasn’t. He had nowhere to go, and nothing to be, so Michael wasn’t on Gerry’s couch, silently braced himself for the next breakdown that would inevitably come in the evening, when Gerry locked the door, and at night, when darkness fell and Michael thought he was seeing technocolours in the corner of the room again, and everything felt not quite real and he couldn’t stop choking on tears, no matter how much he tried to keep it down. 

He knew Gerry wasn’t sleeping, but Michael still didn’t want to disturb him. Gerry looked upset when he caught Michael crying, upset, sometimes mad, and Michael didn’t want him to. There was blood in his mouth some nights from biting his lip or tongue to suffocate the tears, and it was a comfort. Michael hadn’t tasted his own blood as that thing. He wasn’t that thing anymore, no matter how much he still felt its grip around his ankle, his throat when he choked on tears and his fingers felt wrong. Michael wasn’t it anymore, but Gerry also said he wasn’t Michael, and so Michael wasn’t in Gerry’s dark living room, and cried.

The fog came and dried his tears, froze them on his cheeks. Michael didn’t fight it. First, he simply didn’t notice, the creeping cold not awfully different from the empty confusion he had been feeling. Or maybe it was a confusing emptiness? It didn’t matter. Not when the fog made its home inside of him, leeched the colour and dampened the sound of his surroundings. Muted his whirring thoughts and empty, tight feeling in his chest. Fed the emptiness until it had taken over and nothing mattered and the pain was a steady constant, but out of focus, less sharp, nearly gentle. 

Michael let himself melt into that feeling, missed it whenever the click of the lock made him startle out of it, made his heart race with a fresh wave of panic. It brought everything into painful focus in those moments, Gerry - oh, he didn’t look good, not at all, eyes red with exhaustion, tears, too wide, spiralling thoughts clear in the chocolate brown that had long ceased to look warm. Not that Michael had much of a concept of warmth anymore. 

He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to think about it, and he welcomed the fog when it reached out again, enveloped him. Thoughts were fleeting in the fog, memories strangely removed. Michael still didn’t know who he was, or if he was, and it didn’t bother him, not in a way he could feel. Not in the gentle fog that was turning his bones to ice.

Michael was out of focus. For a while Gerry was sure it was Spiral bullshit again, making him look soft at the edges, like he might be dissolving into Gerry’s living room. But that didn’t seem quite right, this didn’t  _ feel _ like the Spiral. Gerry hated that he could tell, but this felt more...personal. He  _ knew _ it.

Michael had stopped attempting to interact, barely moved from the same spot on the couch anymore and it just looked hazy and Gerry felt the cold whenever he himself dared to step closer and he didn’t actually  _ feel  _ like getting closer. Not in the way he had before, not out of anger and grief and confusion, out of fear of forgetting this wasn’t Michael or thinking it was. He was being  _ pushed back _ and the taste on his tongue was familiar, an old memory of endless, numbing grey. Of gentle hands pulling him out of it, Michael’s voice in his ear cutting through cotton-mist. The Lonely.

This didn’t make sense, it didn’t make sense  _ at all _ . Michael wasn’t  _ alone _ , not anymore. In the Spiral he had been, yes, and Gerry would probably never forgive himself for letting that happen, for abandoning Michael to that  _ thing _ , but Gerry had gotten him out, had-- hadn’t. He shook his head. His thoughts were so difficult to grasp lately, dissolves like whips of air the moment he grabbed them. No, he hadn’t saved Michael. It wasn’t Michael, the thing on his couch, it was too wrong to be Michael. It was the Distortion, still, even if the Forsaken seemed to be reaching out for it.

It didn’t make sense, did it? It didn’t make  _ sense _ for the Lonely to try to take the Distortion into its domain, it didn’t feel  _ right _ . The thing wasn’t human. Except...except Michael was still in there. Gerry had known, of course, had kept telling himself that was the case because Gerry didn’t know what to  _ do _ if Michael was gone for good. 

But there had been an anxiety about that being the case, about that thing just playing with him thoroughly, making him believe there’s still hope. Those thoughts would creep up on him when it got late or early and his eyes burned trying to force the words in front of him to give him a way, an idea to get Michael back. He pushed the thoughts away, kept them down, buried them as deep as he could.

But now he knew they were  _ wrong _ . The Lonely wouldn’t attack the Spiral, but it was clearly trying to get the thing sitting on Gerry’s couch which meant that there had to be something human about it, which meant Michael was there, somewhere.  _ It had to mean that _ . Gerry brushed all other options and doubts clawing at his fragile mind away, feeling a new surge or urgency, of energy. 

Michael was there. The Lonely was trying to get him, get to him through the Distortion, somehow. Gerry had to get him out first, had to get Michael out of the hellscape, that endlessly spiralling hallway that was apparently making him feel alone enough that it got the Fosaken’s attention. Gerry had to  _ hurry _ . He wasn’t sure if he could save Michael once it got him, once he was both gone within the Spiral and the Lonely. Gerry didn’t even know how that’d  _ work _ . He couldn’t let it happen, he had to get back to his research, had to  _ find _ something, anything. Quickly. 

The door to his room fell close loudly, and Michael, for once, didn’t flinch. He didn’t hear it through the cotton-fog in his ears, in his head.

Nothing worked. Gerry couldn’t find anything that even sounded like it  _ would _ work but he still tried, desperately, because Michael- the thing wearing his face- both? were getting harder and harder to approach, more lost in that cold fog and  _ Gerry couldn’t let that happen _ . His hands trembled and his eyes struggled to focus, dry from lack of sleep, from too many tears, when had he last drunk something? 

He didn’t care. He tightened his grip on the book in his hand, one he would’ve burned on spot, Gerry hated using them, never wanted to use them, but Gerry needed to get Michael out, out of fog and hallway, out of madness and loneliness because Gerry...Gerry wanted him back and had made a promise and  _ he had to hurry _ .

It wasn’t the first time Gerry tried something, anything, everything, but Michael, like before, didn’t even seem to realise. His eyes were distant, the grey pale and cold, his face impassive and sickly, like the colour had been sucked out of it. And Gerry just couldn't take it anymore. It was too much and a sob ripped through his throat as he sank to his knees.

Michael had gotten used to the fog. It was nice, muted everything. Nothing mattered in it, not the fact that he didn't know who he was, nor the fact that he hurt so badly as he watched Gerry walk back and forth and back and forth. It felt more gente, the pain, and Michael embraced that feeling of cold solitude. 

Until he didn't. Until Gerry came close, so close again one night - day? - and there were tears in wide, paranoid eyes as he apologised -  _ I'm sorry I couldn't be better for you, I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise, I'm sorry I couldn't save you _ . Gerry never talked to him, not directly. Michael would sometimes hear his mumbling through the fog, under his breath, as he paced, but he hadn’t heard Gerry’s voice properly forever. 

There was something in his voice, a strain, a specific tone, that made Michael’s blood run cold even through the haze of the fog, made him feel alarmed, albeit a very distant, muted alarm. But he felt it because he recognised that tone. He knew it, was familiar with it, with the expression in those eyes. 

Michael could nearly taste it, the tendrils of the Spiral, of madness, creeping up at Gerry, tightening their grip.  _ Tightening their grip _ . They already had a hold on him. How had Michael not noticed? How had he been passive to the growing paranoia, tipping into madness as Gerry spent night and day and day and night awake, reading, researching? The Beholder, as usual, as Gerry had always been, but not really. This was different, this was insanity fed through desperation and Gerry was slipping, Michael could see now, _ recognised _ the expression, the voice, the trembling. He was familiar with the signs, intimately, and Gerry was  _ slipping _ and the Spiral was there to catch him, engulf him, eat him, slowly, bit by bit, layer by layer, until Gerry would be gone. Michael knew how it went. Gerry couldn’t fall to it, Michael wouldn't let it- 

He’d probably have to break out of the fog for that. Michael didn’t want to. He was...comfortable. The world was glass shards and knife’s edges and Michael felt safe in the fog. He felt right, like it was where he belonged. Cold and alone and hopefully soon forgotten-

Michael shook his head, sat up from the crease in the couch he had attempted to merge with in the past...how much time had passed? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. All that mattered right now was Gerry. He couldn't and wouldn't let the Spiral have Gerry, too. He wouldn't. 

"Gerry."

Gerry didn’t hear, just continued his frantic apologies. Michael thought he could feel Gerry’s hands on his face, distantly, and it hurt. He had missed and craved those hands so much and now they felt too sharp, too much and the fog pulled Michael back, cradled him in its gentle emptiness where nothing felt like anything. 

Gerry would probably be better off without Michael anyway. It was  _ Michael _ who got him into this state in the first place, Michael who was not what Gerry wanted or needed, who was wrong and had cried too much, Michael who wasn’t. If he’d just stay, stay in the fog’s embrace, biting cold, but so, so muted, like nothing, like Michael, Gerry would get better, probably, with Michael finally gone--

Michael shook his head more insistently, tried to force the haze away, the cold, tried to not shy away when everything started coming into cruel, sharp focus, Gerry’s thin, exhausted face, tearstained and in pain and eyes looking so, so far gone. He was kneeling on the floor as he mumbled his frantic apologies at Michael without really seeing him, trembling hands cradling his face, nearly gentle. Michael was unsure if he even knew he was doing so.

Michael cleared his throat and took Gerry’s hands into his - they were warm and dry and Michael felt like he was bruning his own freezing hands, but he still squeezed them.

“Gerry, please…” His voice broke, fragile with lack of use. “Gerry, please, listen. Look at me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have never- I shouldn’t have- I should-”

He choked on a sob, every other word was a sob and Michael’s heart clenched, because Gerry’s eyes were still not seeing him, he wasn’t hearing him, so far gone.

Michael tried again, tried to speak louder, more insistently. His throat hurt. “Gerry, love, hey...Gerry. Gerry, listen.”

There was a brief moment of clarity in Gerry’s eyes, and then he was shaking his head, pulled his hands away like he had just burnt them. “You’re not him, you’re  _ not _ , I need to save him, I need to- he doesn’t- you do, you-”

He was breathing too fast, too quickly, sobs choking him as he tried, trembling, to get up from his position to no avail. He couldn’t _ breathe _ .

Michael reached out, wanted to comfort, but stopped himself, hands hovering uselessly as he fought his own tears. “Shh, I...You’re right, Gerry. I’m not...I’m not your Michael Shelley. He’s gone. You...you can’t save him, I’m sorry.”

“No!” It was too loud and Michael shrunk back, as if struck, and Gerry hated himself a little more, but he  _ couldn’t breathe _ and this  _ wasn’t Michael _ . “Lies, it’s...it’s your thing, it’s what you deal in! You’re that thing and it is lying and Michael is still...is still in there and he needs help and I promised-”

Gerry finally managed to scramble to his feet, nearly fell as his vision went black for a moment. He was dizzy and still sobbing and  _ afraid _ and he didn’t know of what anymore.

“Gerry, Gerry, look at me. Please. I’m not that thing, either. I...I think part of it...stuck with me, yes. But I’m not it. I can’t make doors and I can’t bend and twist things as I please. I’m not...I’m not that monster, Gerry. I’m...I’m me,” it was a plea, and Michael swallowed the lump in his throat, bit back the sting of tears in his eyes.

Gerry sounded angry, desperate, “You’re  _ not _ , you’re not him. Michael is still-”

Michael struggled to his feet as he watched Gerry sway as he breathed, heaving, sobbing, looking like he might fall. Michael didn’t feel very steady himself, and his voice was breaking, it was a whisper when he said, “He isn’t, Gerry. I know, because I’m what’s left of him.” He swallowed, held Gerry’s eyes, so many emotions, so much panic, “I’m sorry.”

He pinched his brows, but he looked too lost to look angry. “No! It’s impossible, it’s lies, it doesn’t make sense...Michael...Michael was nothing like you! You are nothing like him!” Gerry’s eyes were focused on him now, darted from eye to mouth to arm, never resting, never looking for too long as tears kept streaming down Gerry’s face. “Michael...Michael was all soft and you...you cut! You hurt to look at, because you look so much like him but….but wrong. Too many edges. He would smile and laugh and hold me and everything would feel right and-”

The sob shook him bad, and Gerry was back on the floor, face in his hands as he tried to breath and shake his head and stop shaking violently. Michael knelt next to him, concerned and tears were escaping his eyes, and he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Tentatively, he put his arms around Gerry’s shoulder, losely in case Gerry jerked away. He didn’t, just kept heaving breaths in between sobs, and Michael gently tightened his grip, stroked his hair.

“Shhh, I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Michael’s words were laced with tears by now but he couldn’t help it. He was in pain, this was all too much. But Gerry needed him, he couldn’t break down. So he squeezed Gerry closer, gatherted him in his arms when Gerry came willingly, pressed their foreheads together because needed Gerry to  _ hear him _ . When Gerry’s red-rimmed eyes met his, Michael said, “But  _ listen _ . I might not be Michael Shelley as he was, as you lost him, but I...I’m still Michael. I still _ love _ you. And you...you are falling to the Spiral, Gerry. And I can’t let that happen. Please, I….please come back. I need you. I love you. Please.”

And Michael held him and it felt wrong, things didn’t all feel right but it felt  _ needed,  _ as vital as breathing, and Gerry cried, sobbed into Michael’s shoulder, and let himself be held as he tried to understand what he was being told, tried to let those words in even though they cut him. 

They were the truth, he could feel it, somewhere deep inside. Michael, his Michael, was lost for good. But that thing was no more either. This was all there was, and Gerry clung to it with desperation, buried his fingers in Michael’s sweater, pulled him close. It was all he had of Michael, and Gerry wouldn’t let it slip away, too.


End file.
